Deep breath, deep breath. It was over, the task was done. Nikolas got out a couple of towels that he wouldn’t miss, and started wiping things down. By the time things looked normal in his kitchen, it was well past one o’clock.
The room stank of bleach, and he was left with a garbage bag containing his pants, two bloody towels, shards of the coffee mug, and the half melted remains of the stapler. Oh, the bits of the heart as well, of course, and the bags it had sat in. And his veggies.
With it all in one sealed bag, no other visual hints about, and the smell of bleach, things were quite normal again. The nausea persisted though. After a second shower, and another attempt at eating, he went back to bed. Oh. Right. Puke. New sheets. Then back to bed. He looked forward to his first day of work without Lyndon.
Getting to sleep at a quarter to two is hard when you know the alarm clock is staring at you impatiently. After a try at sleep, he got up to watch TV. Infomercials dominated the airwaves, but he found some reruns from the eighties, and a soft core porn movie that was nearly as old.
He watched the porn for a while. The women were pretty, if you liked big hair and laughable implants. Oh, and don’t forget the acting. Thankfully they weren’t attempting much of that. All in all, it was woefully un-satisfying. Un-exciting.
Know what was exciting? Going nuts on a human heart with a big knife! Ah, but that kind of thinking is where serial killers come from. To heck with the porn. He flipped to a sitcom rerun. Its familiarity was soothing. With this episode, he could nearly recite every line. When it was over, the station ran another episode of the same show.
Nikolas stared at the screen, eventually not even really seeing it. Sleep may or may not have come, he couldn’t tell. He was vaguely aware that it was lighter out than it was before. Morning was coming. His wits congealed enough that he saw that a morning news/entertainment show had begun. He shut it off, giving up the idea of sleep, and scrounged for his one-shot coffee packets. Delicious, planet-hating little caffeine doses. He plugged one into the machine, and reached for his usual coffee mug.
Oh yeah.
That one shattered.
He got another mug and put it under the machine’s nozzle. The machine was fast, but not instant. While he waited, the garbage bag of last night’s event stared at him.
Nikolas smiled at it, remembering that Lyndon would be dead.
~~~
A steady supply of coffee got Nikolas up to a survivable speed all the way to work. He parked, headed towards the building, and smiled again seeing Lyndon’s empty parking spot. He never deserved it. The higher ups had a free spot close to the building, and when Lyndon overheard them talking about it, he suggested that they raffle it off to the serfs to build morale, and the bastard won. He didn’t deserve the spot, he just won it. He didn’t even brag about it, he had just gone on smugly as if it wasn’t important. That was the moment when Nikolas knew that he had to kill Lyndon. That was the call for revenge. Trite, and petty.
And it was done. The spirits heard his call, and Lyndon was dead. Feeling confident and perhaps a little powerful, he walked into the office, beaming.
“Hi, Nikolas,” Gerry said as he came in.
“Hey there, I notice Lyndon’s parking space is empty! Is... is he sick?” A believable notion, since Nikolas himself had been ‘sick’ also.
“It’s not his space anymore.” Gerry said this with a glib, matter-of-fact tone. It seemed Gerry wasn’t a big Lyndon fan either.
“Oh?” Nikolas said innocently, “Why not?”
“His month is up.”
“His month?”
“Yeah, he won the spot for a month, and it’s over. It’s going to be raffled off again today.”
Nikolas perked up to perfect posture, and cocked his head. “Huh!” He straightened his shirt. “Huh. I was... not aware that he only had it for a month. I... I must have missed out on that little detail. Huh.”
Gerry smirked. “So I guess you’re hoping to win today?”
Nikolas cocked his head in the other direction. “No. No, I am not.” He looked across the office and saw Lyndon wander past. Nikolas walked away from Gerry, towards his own desk. “No, some asshole keeps vandalizing there.”
At his own desk, Nikolas just took some time to rest his elbows on the desk, and hold his head in disbelief. Well, fine. The parking spot was just the last straw, it didn’t mean there weren’t other straws. Other reasons to want Lyndon dead, but aha! No, he wasn’t dead! The incantation didn’t work.
He leaned back in his chair, and took another gulp from his latest coffee. Of course, of course. The spirits aren’t running on wi-fi, and don’t offer instant results. It will come though, and soon. His nerves were shot already, and the coffee wasn’t helping. He grinned like a maniac, and tapped his finger on his cup incessantly. He pointed out his door to the common area and yelled to nobody. “Soon!”
He finished his coffee, tossed out the paper cup, and drummed his desktop a couple times.
“Soon! A-ha!”
Out of coffee, he ventured to the break room walking with enough vigor to catch the attention of anyone who hadn’t heard his declaration of ‘soon.’
“What’s soon?” the supervisor asked, as Nikolas assaulted a new cup with fresh brew. Nikolas smiled and said nothing until after he had conquered the first sip of scalding coffee.
“Personal thing,” he said, blowing on his coffee. “Don’t worry about it. But it’s soon, and it’s awesome.”
“You’re scaring people, Nikolas. You need to calm down.”
“Scaring? Scaring? Who’s... oh, but I have energy and optimism! I’ll get so much done today!”
The supervisor gently took the coffee out of Nikolas’s hand, and set it softly on the table. “And it’ll all be mistakes at this speed. You’re... you’re not high, are you?”
Nikolas reared his head back in surprise, and frowned at the notion. “I... can see how you might think that. Yeah. I get it. But no, just coffee. I haven’t been sleeping well at all lately, and I’m running on caffeine. But I’m okay. I am.”
“No,” said the supervisor, “you’re not. You didn’t take enough time when you got sick or something. Go home. Call me in the morning, all right? And lay off the java. Get real sleep.”
~~~
And so, Nikolas found himself again on his sofa, watching TV. The late night selection of soft core porn, infomercials, and oldie re-runs had given way to soap operas, talk show drivel, and... oldie re-runs. Re-runs won again.
He was tired enough that it hurt. He wanted to sleep, but he was too tired. That damned bag with the heart bits in it still sat on the floor by the counter, in plain sight. Nikolas stared at it as the sitcom’s laugh track grated the inside of his skull. He struggled to stand. He felt weak. He had planned to stuff the bag under the sink, but changed him mind, to just shove it with his foot. He pushed it over to a spot where it couldn’t stare at him while he sat on the sofa.
It opened a little, and a tiny bit of red tissue slid lazily out, onto the floor. It can wait. He got back to the sofa, and landed face down, instantly asleep.
~~~
“Trezi,” a hissing voice said. At first, Nikolas didn’t stir. The voice came again, a little louder. The trace of a growl joined the hiss.
“Trezi, este miezul nopții. Trezi. Acum.”
Nikolas groggily leaned up, and turned off the TV. The voice was obviously not part of the infomercial that had come on while he slept. It was dark. He looked at his watch. 12:01 A.M. He looked around, still half asleep. “Hello?”
“Engleză? Simțiți miros Romani. Tu nu sunt fluent în limba ta?” the voice asked, becoming slightly more human.
Nikolas was now quite awake. He sat upright, and held onto the front edge of the sofa,”Who is this? Where are you?”
The voice emitted a sigh, much akin to a growl. “Very well, lost child. I can speak the tongue of acele porcine.”
A large area of the floor in front of Nikolas seemed to melt and
turn black and slick, like tar. It began to boil, small bubbles about the size of an eyeball. Nikolas leapt behind his sofa, and watched intently.
Slowly, a mass began to rise. The tar-like substance slid off in places, revealing a dark purple network of veins over the sleek, black body.
“... Muló!” Nikolas said. “Are... are you some kind of muló? What do you want? Lyndon didn’t die; his spirit can’t come for me! Or is he dead now? Are you him? Oh, fuck! The spell was supposed to protect against this kind of thing happening!”
“You’re not completely ignorant.” The dark shape stretched a head out forward. Two ears became apparent, though slicked back. Its muzzle flexed open, showing black, canine teeth. The eyes opened, showing two orbs that matched the dark purple veins that ran along its body. “No. I am not a muló, as I was never a man. I was born before your kind.”
With little more than fingertips and eyes showing from behind the sofa, Nikolas dared a question. “Then... are you the one I called to? To kill Lyndon?”
“Yes.”
“Is he dead now? Did you kill him tonight?”
“No.”
“I... I don’t want to offend you, muló — I mean... sir? But... but why not?”
“The price was not paid as expected.”
Nikolas found the courage to scamper over to the book. “But see? I did! See? De viață am susținut,Cu lama eu mânui,Vânătoare cel a cărui soartă este pecetluită.”
The wolf-creature seemed almost to smile. “Yes. By life you claimed, but you claimed no life.”
“But I did!” Nikolas insisted. “I got a human heart, and it wasn’t easy!”
“You reek of cowardice.” the wolf snarled at him. A drop of black spittle landed on Nikolas’s hand. It burned, and patting it off with the other hand only served to burn both hands. “Did you slay the owner of the heart? Did you carve it from his chest?”
“It... it’s right over there, in that black bag! The pieces of it, anyway.”
“That’s not what I asked!” the beast’s voice yelled like a massive guard dog barking. It had now become much larger, akin to a horse in stature. It walked over to the bag. Its wet footsteps left prints of the tar, which boiled just like the first pool from which the beast came.
“It’s a human heart, that’s all it asked for! I had others get it for me,” Nikolas said.
“Honourless filth!” it snarled. It arrived at the bag, and lowered its snout to it. Taking one deep sniff of it, the beast began to chuckle, as if the bubbling liquid gurgled in its throat.
Nikolas leaned over, trying to see what the creature was doing. “I know the incantation only called for me to stab it, but I got a little carried away, is that-?”
“Fool!” The beast turned to face Nikolas, becoming larger as it did so. Its back pressed against the ceiling, and the plaster cracked. “This is the heart of a pig!”
“Pig...?” Nikolas understood now. The homeless men weren’t so quick to kill a person, they had no such intent. The heart was not warm and relatively clean because it had come from a butcher’s shop. His offering was nothing short of fraudulent. The only life of any value that he had to offer was his own. “No, no, no. I call it off! Lyndon can live. I don’t care anymore, you can just go! I call it all off!”
“Lyndon will live,” the beast said with the chuckle still lingering in his throat, “but I will not suffer a fool and a coward.” It closed its eyes as its tar-like body began to spread along the walls, floor and ceiling.
Where the tar substance touched anything, smoke began to rise. Flames flowed gracefully, slowly, lighting the tar ablaze. The alarm sounded only to be consumed. Nikolas looked at his hands as they started to burn where the tar had touched, and the tar started to creep along his skin.
This would not be fast. His final mortal cry came with the knowledge that his death would not be the end.
Lynne Cantwell grew up on the shores of Lake Michigan. She worked as a broadcast journalist for many years; she has written for CNN, the late lamented Mutual/NBC Radio News, and a bunch of radio and TV news outlets you have probably never heard of, including a defunct wire service called Zapnews. In addition to writing fantasy, Lynne is a contributing author at Indies Unlimited. She currently lives near Washington, DC.
“A Man’s Got to Do What a Man’s Got to Do” features Joseph Curtis, one of the main characters in the Pipe Woman Chronicles urban fantasy series, and is set prior to the beginning of the series. The Pipe Woman Chronicles are written in first person from the point of view of Joseph’s girlfriend, Naomi Witherspoon, so this story allowed Lynne to get into Joseph’s head in a way she hasn’t been able to before.
A MAN’S GOT TO DO WHAT A MAN’S GOT TO DO
By Lynne Cantwell
“I hate these things,” George complained, squinting at himself in the mirror. His war-painted visage squinted murderously back at him. “I feel like one of the Village People.”
“Except that guy wasn’t a real Indian,” Joseph said as he leaned against the bathroom door frame, “and you are.”
The feathered chief’s headdress began to slip off the back of George’s head. He caught it with one meaty hand, his scowl deepening. “How did our forefathers keep these things on their heads, anyhow? Why didn’t they fall off while they were riding horses and kicking Lakota ass?”
“They tied them on really tight. Here, let me help you.”
“Not a chance.” George transferred his glare to his roommate. “Where’s your costume, anyhow? I’m not gonna be the only one making a fool of myself at this thing tonight. Going to this party was your idea.”
“Hold on just a second, pard,” Joseph said, his deep blue eyes dancing. “I’m the one who got the invitation. But it was your idea to go. You’re the one who’s sweet on Valerie.”
“I said she was cute once. Once.” George shook a forefinger at his roommate. He gave his image a final glare, turned to leave the bathroom, and stopped. Joseph was still blocking the door. “Do you mind?”
Joseph grinned and stepped out into the hallway, one arm gesturing grandly. Valerie was a classmate of his at Metro State University. She threw a costume party every October, or so she had said when she passed out the invitations. Her parents owned an old Victorian in Denver’s Capitol Hill neighborhood — a perfectly creepy setting for a Halloween bash.
George stopped in front of Joseph. “No, really,” he said. “Where’s your costume?” At Joseph’s widening smirk, his mouth dropped open. “Oh, no. You wouldn’t. Not after you promised Looks Far.”
Joseph reddened, but he raised his chin. “First,” he said evenly, “I didn’t promise I wouldn’t ever shift again — just that I wouldn’t do it as often.”
“That’s not how I heard it,” George muttered.
“And second,” Joseph went on, a little louder, “I’m not going to shift all the way for the party.”
George ignored this last qualifier. “Do you really think that’s smart? After last time?”
Joseph rolled his eyes and sighed. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t know what George was talking about; George had been right there when the farmer had mistaken Joseph for a coyote come to raid his chicken coop, and almost shot him. To be fair, the farmer was only partly mistaken: Joseph had been a coyote — he just didn’t have any interest in the man’s chickens.
Both George and Joseph were Ute Indians, but Joseph was a skinwalker — someone who could assume the shape of nearly any other animal. Only a few people knew of his ability: his grandfather, Looks Far; George; and the elders of the reservation in Utah where Joseph and his grandfather used to live. The tribal controversy that had erupted over Joseph’s shifting ability was one of the reasons why he and his grandfather no longer lived on the rez.
The other reason had to do with a vision his grandfather had received from a Lakota Sioux goddess, about a girl who would help bring the Indian nations power again. Joseph had promised himself that he would find that girl. But so far, he’d had no luck
.
None of which had anything to do with the party tonight. He gave George a withering look and said, “I am always careful.”
George snorted. “Yeah. You feed that same line to Looks Far. And he buys it every time, too.” He shook his head. “If you’re ready, let’s go.”
~~~
Joseph had a great time walking around the party, trying to pick out his classmates and watching their guarded reactions to him. In the suit and tie that he’d picked up at the ARC Thrift Store on West Colfax, he looked normal enough from the neck down. It was his head that confused people. He had tried to get it to the right proportions so that it looked like he had donned a mask, but he knew it wasn’t quite right — the skull was too flat, the nose way too long, the tongue and teeth just a little bit too real. As long as he kept his larynx human, he could approximate his normal speaking voice. But the balance was taking a toll on his self-control. Coyote, who had bestowed upon him the ability to shapeshift, loved a party and wanted to take over. Joseph was beginning to think this “costume” had been a bad idea.
And then he caught sight of George talking to a strange Hispanic woman, and he knew it had been a bad idea. She was brown-skinned and blond-haired, with a generous but well-shaped figure, and she was dressed as a vampire: a black bolero and pants, and a blood-red cape. Her pointy teeth flashed as she spoke earnestly to George, with one hand on his wrist. Then her head whipped around as if she’d been stung, and eyes as red as her cape bored straight into Joseph.
He knew she wasn’t fully human, any more than he was a coyote. Moreover, he was certain she knew his secret, too.
She whispered something in George’s ear; as Joseph watched in trepidation and disgust, her tongue darted out to lick his earlobe. He joined his friend swiftly, but the woman was already gone, leaving George staring after her as if in a trance.
“Yo, George,” Joseph said, waving his hand in front of his roommate’s face. “Earth to George. Earth to George. Who was that?”
13 Bites Volume I (13 Bites Anthology Series) Page 3